


Molly’s Circus, starring Arthur’s Monkeys

by Islanderlass



Series: Jokers to the left of me, clowns to the right [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: And Molly really should have known better, Arthur Weasley is a dork, Could Be Canon, Gen, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-14
Updated: 2018-10-14
Packaged: 2019-08-01 18:13:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16289411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Islanderlass/pseuds/Islanderlass
Summary: Seven children Arthur named (in)appropriately, and one he might as well have.





	Molly’s Circus, starring Arthur’s Monkeys

**Author's Note:**

> I always have stories knocking around in my head, and this was born from one that may, or may not, ever be written. I was thinking: who were the Weasley children named after? We don't really know. So here's one possibility, because, well, I wanted to write a story about lions and tigers, oh my!

 

+1

When the Prewett chit came to twenty-two year-old Arthur and told him she was pregnant, his first thought was that his mother was going to turn him into a poodle. She’d walk him on a gold chain leash, force him to jump through hoops in the ring, and almost certainly castrate him. Cedrella Black Weasley thought Molly was a spoiled, useless poppet, and Weasleys never married useless women. (Arthur was wrong, mostly because any woman who volunteered to raise a Weasley son could never be considered useless by Cedrella.)

Arthur’s second thought was that Molly would probably not let Mentok, his tiger, share their marriage bed . (Arthur was right; his young wife hated cats, and Mentor was promptly shipped to Italy to live out his life with Arthur’s mentor, the lion tamer of the Great Renaldo Cirque.)

Arthur’s third thought was of rebellion. The Prewetts had demanded he send his eldest son to Hogwarts; Molly had demanded they stay in England until the child went off to school; Septimus and Cedrella had demanded that he do his best to make the mother of their grandchild happy. So when Molly tried to name said child Albus, after Albus Dumbledore, Arthur argued that the naming of the children was usually the father’s duty.

“Fine,” huffed Molly. “What are you going to name him, then?”

Arthur looked down at the wide eyed infant and thought of Mentok, who was no doubt lazing in the Tuscan sun. He thought of Francis, the lion tamer, and how the man had taught him how to groom the male lions for the ring. Lion tamer sounded like an impressive, dangerous career, but in reality, it consisted of bribing lazy cats to stand about and not muss the manes their keepers had just spend hours washing, combing, and braiding.

William, the most senior lion, had been the most patient, because he liked the Russian tea cookies Arthur often snuck him. Arthur had been leery of the enormous cat at first, because William liked to yawn hugely, showing off his fangs. By the end of the three year apprenticeship, Arthur had taught William to sit behind him, and yawn right over his head, so that it looked like the lion was salivating over him. William was a ham, and a sweetheart. William, according to the letter Arthur had in his pocket, had died a fortnight ago of old age.

“William,” said Arthur, blinking back sudden tears. “William Weasley. A name of a glorious performer, and kind soul.”

Molly smiled and peppered his face with kisses. The Prewetts and Cedrella beamed while Septimus tried to think of which cousin had been named William.

Billy Weasley proved to be the apple of his mother’s eye and his father’s curious shadow. Arthur loved all of his children, of course, but Billy was the one who reminded him of his beloved cats. The boy liked stretching out in the sun, snacking, and pouncing on his hapless siblings when they misbehaved.

When a tanned Bill Weasley comes home from his apprenticeship in Egypt with long hair, Arthur can’t resist running out to Diagon Alley on Christmas Eve for a last minute gift. (On Christmas Day, Molly nearly keels over in shock when their son opens their gift, and instead of the pocket watch she picked out, finds a silver fang earring.)

* * *

+2

  
They nearly lost their second son; Molly went into early labor when her brothers came to tell them that the elder Prewetts had died in a mugging gone wrong. Six months later, the Death Eaters would claim responsibility in a letter to the Daily Prophet, and the first war would begin in earnest. Arthur wasn’t thinking about the Prewetts, though, as he kept watch over their little boy in the Neonatal Ward at Mungo’s. He was thinking about Charles, his Grandfather’s last Friesian foal. The mare had died during the birth, and Arthur had been the one to beg his grandfather to let him raise the colt rather than let it starve. Little Charlie had been born a runt, and Grandfa Weasley had no real hope the horse would grow up to be worth anything.

He’d never been so happy to eat crow the day he found Arthur and Charlie practicing trick moves in the Burrow’s paddock. (He’d also never been so happy that Cedrella liked to sleep in—his daughter in law would have had his balls if she’d seen her ten year old son do a handstand on top of a cantering stallion.)

Someone squeezed Arthur’s shoulder, bringing him back to the present. He looked up to see his father smiling. His heart sped up, like a horse galloping in the grand finale.

“Molly—is she—did they—“

“Your wife is fine,” Septimus told him. “Sleeping. Demanded I come out here and tell you to name your son after a survivor, because that’s what he’d be. Well?”

“Charlie Weasley.” Arthur jutted out his chin in defiance, silently daring his father to say something.

Septimus grinned broadly. “Son, with a name like that—you might not survive him. He could be an aerialist, or fire breather, or snake charmer. That horse was fearless.”

“That,” said Arthur, “is precisely why I’m naming him Charlie. I think, if there’s such a thing as reincarnation, Charlie would come back as a Weasley.”

When Septimus hears that Charlie has ran away to become a dragon tamer, he sends Arthur a crude drawing of a small boy doing a headstand on the head of a cranky looking welsh green. Arthur sends back a sketch of a Chinese Fireball swinging from a trapeze, snorting fire at a tiny ringmaster figure far below. He knew his boy was no whip wielding trainer; no, Charlie, at heart, wanted to be one of the dragons.

* * *

 

+3

Perceval Weasley was born at home, without any grandparents in attendance. The Weasleys’ Whirling Dervishes of Devon Circus was in Russia. When Charlie turned one, Septimus announced that he couldn’t risk the Death Eaters attacking them; after all, Weasleys were known blood traitors, and Cedrella suspected her own cousin, Orion, of joining the supremacist terrorists. The Circus wouldn’t winter in Devon for the remainder of the war.

Cedrella had cried, and screamed, and threatened to turn Molly and Arthur into poodles when they had refused to leave Britain and accompany the Circus. Gideon and Fabian refused to leave their friends; Molly refused to leave her brothers; Arthur refused to rob his wife of their sons.

Arthur sat on the floor, playing with his two eldest sons, as Molly nursed their newborn brother.

“He’s so quiet,” whispered Molly. “Do y’think there’s something wrong with him, Arthur?”

“No, Mollywobbles. Every circus needs some serenity, to comfort the frightened animals during a thunderstorm, and sooth the nervy performer before the first show of the season. I reckon this little one knows we needed some calm, that’s all.” He prayed this child didn’t like the outdoors as much as his siblings; if the attacks worsened, he’d have to ban his wife and sons from leaving the house.

“Who’s the Weasley’s spot of calm?” Molly smoothed her hand over the baby’s wispy hair. “That’s who we should name him after.”

Arthur hesitated, then shrugged. He’d already named two children after circus animals, what was one more? “Perceval. He was closest to Marius; I didn’t know him well, but he’d hug Marius during thunderstorms.”

“Perceval Weasley.” Molly smiled down at the baby. “You’ll be our knight, little one. Our brave protector.”

(Arthur thinks, later, as Undersecretary Weasley storms away from the family, that Percy’s neuroses were inevitable. He never tells Molly that Marius was Perceval’s spot of calm, not the other way around. His brother stumbled upon the terrified elephant being whipped by a cruel faced man in Poland; Septimus, for once in his life, didn’t dicker over the price of an animal. He just handed over the gold, and told Marius that Perceval was his. The elephant would wrap his trunk around Marius’ torso and silently watch the other elephants prepare for shows. Perceval never did perform, because he didn’t care for loud noises, but he let the Weasley brothers sit on his scarred back as he meandered around the camp on hot summer days, in search of water to splash in.)

* * *

4+5

 

The twins—well, Arthur was willing to admit partial responsibility for Fred and George. Not entirely his fault, but, well, he _was_ the one who had named them. The twins themselves believed they’d been named after the Prewett boys, but, in fact, Molly was considerably younger and more cosseted than either Gideon or Fabian. They’d resented their baby sister, and she had often made things worse when she tried to gain attention. Arthur knew much of her grief over their deaths arose from missing out on a close relationship with the men. He would never tell his children that, though.

No, the Weasley Twins were…well, Weasley twins. They took after Arthur and Guinevere Weasley, no doubt about that. Except, unfortunately for Arthur, his sons got on like a house on fire. Arthur had been sorely tempted to set his sister on fire several times during their childhood, and so he wasn’t real thrilled when he found Gwennie in front of the nursery window at Mungo’s intently watching her nephews sleep. A crocodile stood on its hind legs next to her, looking bored. Or hungry. Arthur wasn’t sure. Gwennie’s crocodiles were usually bored right up until they found someone to terrorize (or eat).

“Gwennie,” he said, stalking up to stand beside her. “What the hell are you doing here? Did George want to size my babies up for his Christmas dinner?”

His sister kept staring through the window at the babies. “Don’t be a fucking moron, Artie. That’s Fred, not George. Fred’s favorite holiday is St. Patrick’s Day. Leprechauns, you know.”

“I thought Fred liked Valentine’s day.”

“I may have gone a little too far with the cupid’s wings last year. When he jumped at the tightrope, his wings caught on my trapeze, and he—well—like an angel, he flew. Turns out crocodiles don’t care much for flying.”

Arthur snorted. “Um. Will George maul me if I laugh?”

Gwennie finally turned to grin at him. “Oh, no. I’m pretty sure he still gives Fred grief over it. We were all pretty scarred from that experience, but I think Freddy’s more ashamed than anything else. Poor thing. He was subdued for weeks. Pa finally commissioned a jeweled collar for him, because he said he knew what it was like to feel emasculated by a Black-Weasley woman.”

Arthur chuckled, and finally pulled Gwennie in for a tight hug. She wrapped her arms around him; they stood there for a moment. His sister could be a bitch, and a terror, but they shared too much to ever be rid of one another. First a womb, then blood and a shared childhood.

He stepped back and pretended to not see her wiping tears from her eyes. “Long time, no see, bint. You didn’t comeback for anyone after Bill—is this just sentimentality over our twin-hood?”

“Ha! Bastard, not a chance. No, I figured I’d come and see my future wards.”

“Planning to steal them, eh? Y’know, if you want to change dirty nappies that badly, all you need to do is forget your potion next time you lure an unsuspecting man into your bed. ”

Gwennie rolled her eyes. “Oh, yes, there it is. The insinuation I’m a slut. You’re so predictable, you know. I don’t want brats, arse, and I definitely don’t want to raise spawn of you and Prewett. No, I just foresee ending up with them because their fool parents won’t flee Britain. Try to teach them some self preservation, Artie, and how to defend themselves. I reckon you won’t be around to do so.”

Arthur ground his teeth. Same old Gwennie. “If this is another way to guilt me into taking the babies and leaving Molly, well, it won’t work. And tell Ma it’s the stupidest one yet, because Weasleys are born impossible. Look at you. Our parents couldn’t possibly have wanted this result."

His sister’s face whitened. “Ma doesn’t know I’m here! I just—I just wanted to say goodbye, I guess. Knew you wouldn’t come along.” She turned towards the glass window again and pressed a palm to the glass. “See you, nephews. Have they got names yet, Artie?”

“No,” Arthur said.

“You should name them Marius and Leo,” Guinevere said. “Maybe they’ll be sensible like our brothers, y’know, instead of like us. I hope for Molly’s sake, anyway. Or maybe after her brothers, although, really, they’re both gits.” Then she wrinkled her nose. “And terrible in bed to boot.”

Before she could expand on that theme—she liked to overshare to wind her brother up—a nurse entered the room and caught sight of the crocodile. She began to scream in terror. The elder Weasley twins rolled their eyes in unison. Really. It was just a crocodile. British witches were so cowardly. Gwennie tugged at the slender leather lead around the crocodile’s neck. “C’mon, baby. Say goodbye to Uncle Artie—maybe next time you see him, you can snack on his corpse.”

The crocodile slowly slid down to the floor, claws leaving large gouges in the plaster. He ambled towards the door, Gwennie sauntering after him. Arthur watched them go, unwilling to admit he felt a little sad. Gwennie wasn’t wrong. You Know Who probably would kill them all in the end, and he could only pray the children could find their way to his family after he and Molly fell.

He rolled his shoulders and smiled grimly. Well. If the Dark wanted the Weasleys dead, he’d make it work for its bread. He was going to name these boys after the most dangerous, conniving Weasleys of all. Fred and George (the humans) would do well if they turned out half as notorious and bloodthirsty as his sister’s crocodiles.

(He never denied the twins were partly his fault. But he also never neglected to add that they were mostly Gwennie’s fault.)

* * *

+6 

  
Ron, they swore to themselves, was their last attempt at having a daughter. When Molly found out she was pregnant, she was sure it would be a daughter. She snuggled into his side in the waiting room at St. Mungo’s and said, “Maybe we could name her after one of your sisters.”

Arthur snorted, perusing his out of date Witch Weekly. “Patricia loathes her name, and Guinevere—dear Merlin, I can see it now! Orgies in the Gryffindor locker rooms, streaking in Hogsmeade, splinched with a man’s pierced willy inside her.”

His wife pinched his arm.

“Ow!”

“Don’t insult your sister, dear. She’ll find the right man someday.”

“I love Gwennie, you know that, but do you really want you child to take after her?”

“With five older brothers, our daughter may need some of her vim and vigor.”

“Yes, dear,” he said, right before the healer called their names. She pinched him again when he heaved a relieved sigh upon learning it was another boy.

“Ow!”

“I know what you’re thinking. What do you want to name our newest monkey?”

Feeling spiteful, he said, “Ronald. He was a bit of a mummy’s boy.” She pinched him again. “Fine! Fine! He liked to cuddle, and play dress-up with Aunt Fiona’s hats and jewelry.”

“That would be nice,” said Molly wistfully. “I don’t wish for him to be teased, you know, but the twins are so—independent. Perhaps Ronald will want to learn to knit.”

Arthur wisely kept his mouth shut. But he kicked himself, for years afterward, because his youngest son had the manners of the monkey he’d been named after. Ronald the monkey had been given to Arthur’s aunt on her honeymoon; the African guide had meant for her to eat its brain, but Aunt Fiona couldn’t do it, so she brought the little monkey home to the circus. It threw fruit at the Weasleys’ other animals, climbed drapes, and ate anything it could get its paws on.

(After Ronnie befriends little Harry Potter, Arthur hit his knees every night and asked the monkey’s soul to look after the boys. The monkey always got out of every trap, every cage, and and every locked room. Ron, Harry, and Hermione seemed to have the same damn mix of luck, skill, and insanity.)

* * *

 

+7

Ginevra was the surprise. Ginevra—they’d been so drunk the Night of November 1, 1981. Somehow Molly’s birth control potion failed, and then, nine months later, there was their little girl. Molly was over the moon with happiness, and their sons—well, Bill and Charlie were thoroughly grossed out that their parents Did It Still, Percy held her like she was going to explode, and the twins took off Ron’s diaper and let him poop all over his crib, his sheets, and his extremely unimpressed little sister, with whom he shared the crib.

“Arthur,” hissed Molly. “Stop laughing and put the camera away. Or so help me. I. Will. End. You!” She plopped Ron in the bath tub, and hurried washed off the baby. The twins were lurking on the landing, clearly caught between terror and hilarity. Bill gagged as he cast a few cleaning charms on the crib, and Charlie and Percy were downstairs, munching on unattended cookies, for once grateful they didn’t have wands.

“But, Mollywobbles,” cried Arthur. “This is the sort of family moment we’ll look back on, fondly, when the children are grown. Don’t you want it immortalized on film?” He took another snapshot of Bill vomiting on Ronnie’s feces covered teddy bear.

“Put it away, or give it to the twins, so they can record your bloody disembowelment starring me and my spoon.” She pulled a silver teaspoon from her apron pocket and waved it threateningly at her husband.

“All right, all right.” Arthur put the camera down, and went to help Bill clean the nursery. Later, they sat at the kitchen table and Molly carefully glued the pictures in her daughter’s baby book.

“Ew, Mum, really?” Bill looked at her in disbelief.

“I was joking, honey,” said Arthur, as he set dealt out the exploding snap deck between his oldest sons.

“Oh, I know,” said Molly. “But Septimus will enjoy this, you know, when they start wintering here with us again. Weasleys aren’t shrinking violets.”

Arthur sighed. He knew he’d forgotten something. “They’re not wintering here again,” he said gently.

Molly looked up sharply. “But—surely, with the war over—“

“It’s been ten years, love. They have new contacts, new agreements in place elsewhere. And Wizarding Britain—it’ll take a while for people to feel safe again, and even longer for the economy to recover.”

“But they have family here,” said Molly, distressed.

“They wanted us to leave,” said Arthur. “They see our decision to stay as a continued rejection of them. The Blacks are as good as dead, and Albus has denied Cedrella even the knowledge of where Dorea’s grandson is being raised. There’s nothing in the Isles for the Weasleys, love.”

Molly’s lips trembled. “Have—Have I done this to you, Arthur? Taken your family away?” Their oldest boys watched their parents, wide eyed and worried.

“You’ve given me seven strong children, Mollywobbles,” Arthur said firmly. “And who knows, maybe after Bill graduates Hogwarts, we’ll go after them.”

“Why Bill?” Asked Percy. “I want to be a Gryffindor too!”

Molly looked beseechingly at her husband. Arthur desperately wanted to say no; Weasleys didn’t attend any fancy boarding schools. But he didn’t want his third son to feel left out, so he smiled, and said, “If you promise to get the very best grades, and mind your manners, you can go.” (He didn’t realize how literally Percy would take that. He’d never have said that if he’d known.)

“Oh Arthur,” Molly got up and came around the table to give him a tight squeeze and smooch. “Thank you! Thank you! You won’t regret it—Percy will see to that! Right son?” Their son nodded shyly. (Arthur does regret it. He has nightmares about this conversation many years later.)

“If Gran and Grandpa Weasley can’t be here,” said Bill suddenly, “we should name our sister after the most famous Weasley woman of all.”

Molly wrapped her arms around Arthur’s neck and perched on his lap. “Well. Your father named all of you after famous Weasleys! So I’m sure he has the perfect name for our baby girl!”

His children and wife looked expectantly him. “Er.” Arthur thought furiously. He still didn’t want to name the child after his sisters, and naming her after a Black, after Sirius’ conviction, would just be asking for trouble. They’d already honored Fiona, with Ronald, and Tina, his father’s other sister, had been…difficult. Thank Merlin that albino cobra had bitten her on the boob, because it was generally agreed the snake had saved his father and uncles from a holiday with dementors. The snake! Oh! Perfect!

“Ginevra,” said Arthur brightly. “Ginevra Weasley. She saved my father and uncles, years ago. Died soon after. Uncle Steve said we must never forget her service.” Uncle Steve had taxidermied the white cobra and put her in a place of honor in his wagon after the snakes had all been sold or killed. With Tina dead, they had no snake charmer, and it was no longer safe to have the snakes.

“Ginevra Weasley,” said Bill. “I like it! It sounds cool, and kind of scary.”

Little Ginny did, indeed, turn out “cool and kind of scary”. She also turned out to have nightmares in which red eyes played a prominent role. When she was 17, the summer after the war, she told her father she wanted to kill the ghost of Tom Riddle for good.

“You should buy an albino snake. No, hear me out! Snakes are protectors,” Arthur said. He glanced around furtively, to make sure his wife wasn’t in earshot. “You were named for one, you know. My Uncle Steve’s favorite albino cobra, Ginevra. Probably saved his life, in fact. He’d been afraid of her until then.” Steve had hated snakes, but he told Arthur that he reckoned he could like anyone with the good taste to take offense to Tina.

“Really?” Ginny asked. “Harry—I don’t know how he’d handle that. And you were bitten by Nagini, Dad.”

“Just because one snake bites you, doesn’t mean they all will,” said Arthur. “Just because one man with red eyes possessed you doesn’t make all men evil, and it doesn’t mean everyone with red eyes means you harm. Look, maybe someday we can visit my family, and Harry can meet my cousins. Uncle Steve married a Parseltongue after the Cobra saved his life. My cousins are about as terrifying as—as—your puffskein, sweetheart. You just need to love someone—animal or human—with red eyes, and then you won’t see Tom’s.”

His daughter, sniffling, hugged him tightly, and then skipped away. Arthur—poor, silly Arthur—thought that would be the end of it, and then the next week Ginny brought home a very clever albino mongoose that she named Steve.

Well, thought her father, as the Mongoose skittered away from a fry pan wielding Molly, At least Uncle Steve will never, ever find out about this. I mean, surely Molly will never want to go after the circus.

* * *

 

+1

Harry Potter—Arthur, obviously, didn’t name Harry Potter. He did raise him, though, or at least that’s the way Arthur saw it. Arthur went to Gringotts after the war and threatened to sic Septimus and Cedrella on the goblins if the ungrateful buggers didn’t let the insignificant matter of the dragon go.

“Not insignificant,” argued Harry. “I nearly destroyed the Bank. They won’t hire Bill back, now, not ever.”

“Bill will survive, son,” said Arthur. “If my family had stayed in Britain during the wars, Bill would never have gotten that job in the first place. The goblins don’t like us Weasleys.”

“Why not?”

“We’re…quirky.” We seduce perfectly respectable Goblins into running off with the circus and becoming clowns. That’s how Ragnok would put it, but it’s not like Toehook was even remotely respectable before Aunt Fiona “tripped and fell” onto his cock. Ragnok’s eldest is nutters, and Cousin Filius might be worse. No sane man becomes a teacher. Hm, I wonder how Fil’s doing, given the Hogwarts repairs and all.

“OK,” said Harry doubtfully, when he was certain no other explanation was forthcoming. “If you treat me like your son, y’know, I may have to start being quirky too. To keep up the family tradition and all.”

Arthur couldn’t help himself. He burst into hysterical laughter. “Son—you flew a dragon out of a bank. You talk to snakes. You’re bullied by your owl, and this morning you made me blueberry muffins just because I said they were my favorite. You worry your mum, laugh with your brothers, and fear Ginny. You’re a Weasley, whether you like it or not.” He grinned wickedly at the startled younger man. “Act any quirkier, and I’m changing your hair color to red, and giving you a proper Weasley name.”

“Would you?” Asked Harry desperately. “Please, Dad? Please?”

“Please what?” Asked Bill as he came into the kitchen.

“He said he’d give me red hair and change my name! I’d be a real Weasley,” said Harry excitedly.

“You are a real Weasley,” said Bill. “You always have been, I reckon.”

“Yeah,” agreed George from the doorway. “Mum adopted you when she made you that sweater for Christmas. Sorry, no take backs. Put on a Weasley sweater and be stuck with us for life.” He turned around and screamed “Everyone! Meeting in the kitchen.” Footsteps thundered overhead, and soon everyone, including Hermione and Fleur, were crowded around the table.

“What is it, George?” Molly linked arms with her husband and smiled at George.

“Harry is finally becoming a true Weasley,” said George.

“Dad said he’d give him a real Weasley name, and everything,” said Bill.

“And with a little of that hair dye potion you use, Mum, his hair will be fixed right up,” said Charlie, smiling slyly.

Molly harrumphed but relented when Harry gave Charlie a bear hug. “Well, then.” She summoned her potions box and poured Harry one dose of hair tonic. He drank it eagerly and his hair turned auburn.

Charlie tousled Harry’s curls, and look at his father. “Your turn, Dad.”

“Something like your other children’s,” said Molly. “A true Weasley name, love, one he can bear with pride.”

Arthur rubbed his chin. Renaming the boy didn’t seem right, somehow. The Potters hadn’t been friends of his, but he knew he wouldn’t have liked it if they’d adopted William and named him, say, Fleamont. Then he had an idea. “Harry,” he said, nodding his head decisively.

“What?”

“Harry Weasley. Harry was the name of one of my father’s proteges. Not the quickest study, but he had heart! Never gave up. Pa always said: be like Harry. When you have all eyes on you, and you’re afraid of making a mistake, remember Harry. He’d stick his chest out, and lead the others to victory in the most surprising ways.”

The Circus’ Sea Lions really had never been the strongest act, but they never failed to win over their audience. Harry, the smallest of the lot, improvised most shows. Septimus often joked that Harry had prepared him for both Ringmaster and Father job titles. Both jobs were in theory about control, but in reality, Septimus said often, both roles required the ability to keep a straight face and pretend everything was going according to plan.

His children smiled at each other. “Oi! That’s our boy, all right!” Cheered Ron.

“Harry! Harry! Harry!” Chanted the others

Bill whistled shrilly and they fell silent. “We hereby pronounce Harry Weasley as son of Arthur, baby of Molly, and ickle brat to the rest of us. Care to say anything, baby brother?”

Harry looked around at the happy faces. “Um, Dad,” he said shyly. “How would Harry celebrate? Because I want to celebrate this like him. What did he like?”

“Well,” said Arthur thoughtfully. “He quite liked playing with his quaffle. And fish was absolutely his favorite food.” Hopefully, that’d satisfy them, because sea lions were simple souls, and he couldn’t think of much else, other than swimming.

“We can have a seafood feast for dinner,” said Molly. “Arthur and I can cook while you go play quidditch in the yard. Do you have any favorite fish, Harry?”

Harry shook his head. “I’ve never had fresh fish.”

“Then we’ll buy a bit of everything,” said Arthur brightly. “Now, shoo, go get that game started.”

(Arthur realized, later that evening as he watched the children laugh and roughhouse, that he'd never really left the circus after all. Weasleys made their own mark, they found their own paths, and they chose their own adventure. And sometimes, on a rare night like this, they gathered together and ate food, and told tales of those that had gone before them. The Circus was not the Weasleys- the Weasleys were the circus. It was in their name- it was in their blood.)

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Comment, if you want to see more. I kind of want Molly to go after the circus, and unite in frustration with Cedrella over Arthur's mischief. I also take requests, if there's anything you really want to see.


End file.
